


Starting Over From the End

by Wolvesandwerewolves



Series: What's in a Name? [4]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic, White Collar
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 04:56:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13896726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolvesandwerewolves/pseuds/Wolvesandwerewolves
Summary: Neal faces an enemy from Neil's past. Peter and Elizabeth learn who his brother is and discover Neal Wesninski.Andrew and Neil take a vacation. Neal wants to call it a honeymoon. (It's not.)





	Starting Over From the End

**Author's Note:**

> Please look up--for my sake and yours--Salvador Dali's mustache. Please imagine Jones with that mustache. 
> 
> I'm sorry (not really.)
> 
> So, this is definetly more plotty than the other ones! I hope that's okay. I have it outlined, but so far this is what's written. Thank you to imockusall for the idea about Neal buying Neil out of the mob! 
> 
> I tried to add a little humor to take away from the tension this is bound to have. I'm sorry about the Mozzie-slams-Lolana-on-the-table-thing. No, really. I apologize.

The sky is only just waking up, a red sun pushing the pale blue of the morning away, killing the dark and cold of the night. New York lights imprint on Neal's eyelids like flash memory, clashing with the sunlight every time he blinks. The windows of the buildings reflect and cast the sun away in bright beams, a shattered mirror reverting light in different directions, tilting away from a single destination. It's a view he never got in prison.

It's beautiful. Neal is always up early—prison habits—and painted sun rises are always overdone, so cliché. More than that, Neal can admit that pictures, paintings will never do the real thing justice. It's impossible for even a master or a forger to replicate with emotion and beauty unsacrificed.

Still. Neal wants to paint it. June would love it, at least, for the fact alone that it came from him. She, by way of Byron, and by way of her own, varied life would understand it in ways no one else would.

“Did you miss this view, Neal?” she asks, as if reading his thoughts. June is an amazing woman, intelligent and talented in ways Neal has only ever encountered in a few other people in his lifetime. He would not be surprised in the least if she had the ability to read minds—it would probably prove one or two of Mozzie’s conspiracy theories right.

“Every morning and night,” he says, shrugging as he tightens his tie. Peter won't be coming by for a while now, but Neal is restless this morning and eager to get the day started. “How do I look?”

June stands from her place on the lounging chair, turning to see him just behind her. She eyes the suit for a moment with a searching eye, then smiles. “Marvelous. Byron hardly ever wore that one, but it's one of my favorites. No hat today?”

Neal shrugs, loose in the movement, a lazy smile pushing past his lips. “Not yet.”

June nods approvingly. She turns her back to the sun fully, stepping inside the apartment. She sets herself at the table and Neal sits down next to her, handing her a glass of orange juice. “Thank you, darling. And, what do you have planned for the day, Neal?”

Neal hums, shakes his head. “Not too much. We just closed a case yesterday, so today will be mostly paperwork. Boring stuff.” He scrunches his nose up in exaggerated distaste. Really, paperwork isn't so bad. It's a chance to catch his breath in between cases—albeit a mind numbing one.

June nods. “Hmm. And that twinkle in your eye? Don't tell me you're dawning that beautiful suit just for paperwork.”

June doesn't miss anything. She's as good at reading people as he is.

“Of course not,” Neal promises. “The last game of the season was last week. Abram and the team stayed in Florida for a few days to celebrate the off season, but they're back in town today.”

“Mozzie and I watched that game. The Flames lost, yes? How did your brother take it?”

“He's dealt with losses before. He knows how to handle it. I'm sure he'll practice until the next season, though.”

“I would expect nothing less,” June says. “You're having lunch with him today?”

Neal nods. “I am. “

“You'll tell him I say hello?”

“Of course.”

They chat amiably for nearly half an hour and get partway through a game of chess before Peter texts him. Neal grins at her, leaning down to kiss her cheek. She smiles against him.

“Now, don't you go get into too much trouble with that brother of yours.”

“No trouble,” he swears, flipping his hat on his head. “Have a good day, June. You’ll kick Moz's ass in Candyland?”

“Why, of course. I have a reputation to uphold.”

Neal laughs. “I’ll see you tonight,” he promises.

 

* * *

 

  
A few hours into the morning, Neal shoots a tiny catapult with a wadded up paper at Jones. He's finished the paperwork and Peter is in a meeting with Hughes. He's bored.

Diana shoots him a look somewhere between annoyed and amused as it flies over her shoulder, but she's grown used to him by now. They know his work is done, or else he wouldn't be messing about.

Jones, of course, grins at him as he opens the little note. It's a tiny, but incredibly detailed drawing of Peter with a mustache. Jones makes a poor attempt to hide his laughter as Diana clears her throat.

“I have some paperwork you could help out with, Caffrey.”

Neal looks to the wire basket file holder on her desk. Diana color codes each case. Their last case was red and from what Neal can tell, there are only about one or two pages left in that folder. He smiles, leaning back in his chair, but swivels it halfway to face her better.

“It looks like you've got it covered, Di,” he says. She scoffs lightheartedly, but doesn't protest. He knows she expected this answer.

Jones, done with his paperwork as well, comes to stand by Neal. He leans his hip against the edge of the desk, on the same side as Neal, his foot jutting out to the chair.

“You draw a picture of Peter, Caffrey, but not me?”

“Do you want a picture, Jones?” Neal asks, looking up at him, smiling.

“I wouldn't mind one.”

“Alright. Do you wanna mustache, too?”

Jones strokes his chin. “Maybe not Mario,” he says.

“Luigi?” Diana offers, hiding a grin by adamantly hovering over her desk.

“Nah,” Jones says, shaking his head, not offended in the least.

Neal nods his head, already started on the outline. “Charlie Chaplin?”

“What? No. Seriously, Caffrey?”

“How about Ron Swanson?” another agent asks, coming up to Neal’s desk and joining the conversation. Neal snaps and points at her, nodding enthusiastically.

“Ernest Hemingway.”

“Mel Gibson—2009.”

“This is getting out of hand. Come on, Caffrey.” Jones sounds annoyed, but his lips are twitched up in a grin.

“How about a Salvador Dali?” Neal asks, pursing his lips and pinching his fingers by his mouth to demonstrate.

“What about a Dali?” Peter asks suspiciously, walking down the row of desks to stop at Neal's.

“Nothing,” Neal says, shaking his head. His shoulders are relaxed, posture open. He's innocent. Peter will read it exactly as Neal portrays it.

He actually is innocent, but it's fun to tease Peter every now and then.

“Uh-huh,” Peter says. “Jones?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of Tony Stark,” he says, as if that answers his boss's question.

Peter furrows his brows. “What?”

“No, I can see it,” Neal says, motioning to dismiss Peter's question.

Peter turns halfway around. “Diana?”

“We were debating about Jones' facial hair,” she says, not looking up.

“Seriously, Neal? A Dali?” Peter crosses his arms.

“That's what I said!”

“I'd think Monet would be fine,” Peter continues, shaking his head solemnly. Neal throws his head back and laughs.

“Y'know what? Never mind,” Jones mutters, but he's smiling, too. “I don't want a picture, anymore.”

“You were getting a picture?”

Neal shakes his head, trying to catch Jones's eye. Jones smiles at him, rueful. “Oh, I'll show you yours, later, Peter.”

“Traitor,” Neal mumbles under his breath, looking away. Diana smirks at him.

“Sounds interesting,” Peter says out of the corner of his mouth, a lopsided grin on his face. “You know what else is interesting?”

“Lunch?” Neal asks, hopefully. It's not even 11:30 yet and Neal's not hungry—but it's a nice subject change and he's excited to see Abram. He wouldn't mind leaving early.

“No,” he says, not indulging Neal to even ask. Neal frowns, furrows down in his seat a little more. “This case we got. Conference room in five minutes.” He grins at them, as if he made a joke, before walking back upstairs.

Diana gets up from her seat as Neal and Jones follow Peter. She lightly punches Neal on the shoulder. “Five bucks says whatever it is isn't nearly as interesting as Jones with a Dali mustache.”

Neal laughs, heading up the stairs. “You know I don't make bets I can't win.”

“Hey,” Jones says, from behind them. “I think I could pull it off.”

Neal spins to face Jones as he holds the conference door open for them. “We could bet on that,” he offers.

Jones laughs, settles down in his seat before answering. “I think I'll pass.”

Neal sits across from him. He schools his face into an expression of disappointment he knows they see right through. “You're not fun, anymore,” he whines.

“You'll just have to let work be your entertainment,” Peter says, from his place at the head of the room.

“Art robbery? Something exciting?”

Peter smiles, typing on the laptop and pulling the projector up. “You'll see, kid.”

Neal sits up a little straighter as a picture of a man with dark, silky hair and beady, slanted eyes is put up on the main screen. His jawline curves into a sharp hook, reaching out towards a rounded oval chin. He has sharp cheekbones, with deep hollows underneath. He’s wearing a deep navy suit, no tie, a $15,000 watch on his wrist. Everything about him is expensive, but to a careful eye he's powerful, dangerous.

Neal knows as soon as he sets eyes on him that he's going to hate this case. He wants to go back five minutes, tease Jones some more. He's not prepared for this.

_The man who holds his little brother's life in his hands._

He thinks of the countdown Neil told him about his freshman year. He wonders if he should start his own, now; what it would look like. Triple digits? Double digits? Looking at the picture, Neal isn't sure.

Ichirou Moriyama. Head of a dangerous yakuza family.

Neal had tried buying Neil out of the mob his third year in prison. Kate and Mozzie used some of what Neal had in one of his stashes—an equivalent of $750 million. It didn't work. Kate and Moz only heard back from the front man once, before he disappeared. Ichirou wants more than money—he has enough. He wants power.

Neal hates the man. He's civil, now, but what happens when Neil retires? What if he faces an injury that puts his career on pause? He doesn't trust Moriyama to be understanding.

“Ichirou Moriyama,” Neal, says, shifting in his seat. Organized Crime isn't here, so Neal supposes they're not after him for the well-hidden mob rumors. Neal wouldn't be surprised if he's the only one who knows about it—the Moriyama's cover their tracks well. “What's he into, now?”

“Now?” Peter asks, raising an eyebrow. Neal shrugs as Diana and Jones roll their eyes good heartedly. Peter narrows his eyes at him, but lets it go almost immediately. He turns his attention back to the screen, pulling up pictures of a building covered in lights, with four blue, criss-crossed light beams shooting into the night sky. It’s near the ocean, the bottom part left dark, but with the lights reflecting off the water, it gives the illusion that the building is floating above the edge of the sea. Neal recognizes it instantly.

“Amenoukihashi Casino,” Peter says. “Neal, what do you know about it?”

Neal smiles, no trace of tension. He makes sure there's no difference to his demeanor between now and five minutes ago, when they were joking. He's relaxed. “It's the family business. When Kengo Moriyama died, his first son Ichirou took over the casino. Amenoukihashi means _Floating Bridge of Heaven_ —and it is. No matter the location, when you walk inside a Moriyama casino, you step foot in Vegas. According to Moz, it's one of the Eight Wonders of the World.”

“That's dramatic,” Diana scoffs.

“And according to you, Neal?” Peter frowns at him, raising an eyebrow.

He had been there, once, before he knew who the Moriayma’s were. It was a con man's paradise.

Never again.

“It's outside of my radius.” Neal shrugs, looking at Peter pointedly. Peter smiles back, amused.

“How many locations do they have?” Jones asks.

“Eight,” Peter says. “They have casinos in Nevada, California, D.C, New Jersey, Maryland, Louisiana, Michigan and New York.”

“I take it he's in town, then,” Neal says. His brother hasn’t mentioned anything, but maybe Moriyama is only here for the casino. Maybe Neil doesn't know. That could work to his advantage. “So, what is he into?”

“Money laundering.”

Neal wants to roll his eyes. “Huh. Through the casino—that’s a bit obvious, isn't it?” He almost expects better of Ichirou, but then, of course he has to legitimize the illegal money made from the yakuza and Exy. The casino is easy, convenient.

“Yes,” Peter says. “We've been after him for a while, but he's in New York, now. He'll be here for a month.”

“So we have a month to take him down,” Jones says.

“Should be easy,” Peter says. “No history of violence. Clean and cut; catch him in the act and we're golden.”

“Don't jinx it,” Neal chides. He thinks of Riko Moriyama's alleged suicide, of his little brother forced to pay money to the family. Knowledge is power and the more Peter knows, the longer Ichirou will go away for—the longer he's out of Neil's life. But then another player will step in—they’d have to take down more than Ichirou. It's dangerous and near impossible.

He has to talk to Abram.

“There's a lot you don't know about him,” Neal says. He doesn't say, _There's a lot you don't know about me._ He wants to, almost. He has to.

“Care to enlighten us?” Diana asks. Peter looks suspicious.

“Of course. The Moriyama family are fans of Exy—actually, Kayleigh Day and Tetsuji Moriyama—Ichirou's uncle—created the game.”

“We already know this,” Jones says, nodding along. He doesn't look bored or offended but Neal knows Jones likes to think he knows everything about Exy.

He doesn't. But he will.

“They have a lot of influence in the game. And a lot of power.”

“What sort of power?” Peter asks.

Diana snaps her fingers. “Is this about the rumors of mob connections in Exy?”

Neal turns to her, impressed. He opens his mouth to comment on how quick she is, but she interrupts.

“Shove it, Caffrey. You said they were just rumors.”

Neal shrugs. “A lot of the times, rumors are true.”

“And the rumors that follow you around, about theft and forgery?” She cocks a playful eyebrow at him, smirking.

They're reverting back to the playful nature of earlier. Neal almost wants to thank her for it. He goes along, looks surprised and offended. He's not. It's easy to joke around, shove Neal Wesninski away just a little bit more. This is who he is: Neal Caffrey. “I don't know _who_ is spreading those.”

“Alright, kids,” Peter says, unsuccessfully hiding a smile. He knows exactly who spread most of the rumors. “Let's get back on task. Neal?”

“Jones, I owe you a drink.”

“Did you lose a bet I don't know about?”

“Neal,” Peter says, a gentle warning in his voice. _Play later. Work now._

“I am on track,” he promises. He turns back to Jones, apologetic. “My brother is a professional Exy player.”

_My brother is Neil Josten. His criminal career is as varied as mine. Our father was a murderer._

Neal’s past has always been hidden in shadows and casual misdirects— _my mom told me he was a cop_ —he worked for the mob— _she said he died when I was three_ —he died when Neal was twenty nine.

And that's another thing he's lying to them about. He’ll let them figure that one out on their own.

Jones looks scandalized, eyes wide and mouth slack. It's as fake as his offended expression was this morning, but the surprise is not. “I think you owe me an entire bottle.”

“The expensive stuff?” Neal offers. He can tell Jones isn't actually upset, but he has a right to be, Neal thinks. This is the only explanation he can give right now. “This was his first season. He only just graduated from college, if it matters.”

“Neal,” Peter says. “Explain.”

“Please tell me your brother is not involved in the mob,” Diana says, looking fierce. There's a hidden undercurrent of what Neal thinks is anxiety, concern. He wonders if it's for his brother, who she's never met, or for him.

 _He's been running from them his whole life_ , Neal thinks. He can't mention that, though. Not yet. “He and a few other players are being forced to pay the family eighty percent of their salary.”

“Why?” Peter asks, harsh and confused. “What do they get out of it?”

“Nothing,” he says, carefully vague. He can't show all his cards, yet. “Protection, I suppose, though its from the Moriyama's themselves.”

“Why are you only just telling us this now?”

“He's not going to testify,” Neal says, deflecting easily. “He hates the FBI—he'll probably hate that I told you at all. I'm breaking a promise.” An unspoken promise, but what choice does Neal have? The yakuza will find out about Neal Wesninski before the FBI does. He has to put them ahead of the game before it starts.

“Good luck dealing with that,” Diana says.

“Why does he hate us?” Jones asks. He has a small crease at the edge of his mouth, and Neal can see the slight shake of him as his foot taps silently beneath the table. He thinks of Agent Browning and all the trouble Neil told him the agents caused him after he was kidnapped by their father. But Peter, Jones and Diana aren't like that.

“He doesn't hate _you,_ Jones. He just has a general dislike for all law enforcement.”

“Huh,” Peter says, narrowing his eyes. “I wonder who taught him that.”

Neal smiles easily. “I'll ask him over lunch. Speaking of, do you mind if I head out early?”

“You're meeting with him?”

“It's his turn to buy.”

Peter scoffs, rolls his eyes. He doesn't ask to come along. Neal doesn't offer. “Get any information you can. Be back by one.”

Neal nods, smiles. “See you then.”

 

* * *

 

  
Neil is wearing an old Palmetto State University sweatshirt, bright orange, with _Minyard_ written on the back and a tiny fox paw on the front corner. He has blue jeans and tennis shoes on, the same color of orange as the hoodie. They’ve both graduated, but North Carolina, Wymack’s apartment, and their old house in Colombia will always be home to Neil, even if they live in a New York studio apartment, now. Neil will never forget where he comes from—his first real home. After years together, Andrew has become accustomed to all the orange. Their closet, their styles are dichromatic. Nicky once referred to them as _‘the Halloween couple.'_  Some of the foxes still call them that.

Neil’s red, curly hair is getting long, brushing into his eyes, down his neck. His cheeks are flushed, darkening the scars, highlighting them in a blush. His laughter floats around Andrew, light, airy. After five years, Andrew still isn't used to feeling weightless whenever Neil looks at him, touches him, laughs next to him.

He says that he hates it, but Neil has long since stopped believing him.

Andrew shoves Neil’s face away, feeling his smile push underneath his finger tips. Andrew doesn't even know what he's laughing at; sometimes, Neil will just laugh. He often blames it on the group chat he only checks at the end of the day, but he knows that's not it. It's more internal than that. It has more to do with where Neil is in life and where he is in reference to Andrew than anything else.

Andrew hates how dependent they are on each other. He doesn't think he'll ever overcome or get over the feeling of being alive, of being twenty five and not wanting to die. He knows Neil feels the same, pleasant surprise at his own survival. He thinks this feeling will follow them into old age, will outlive them both.

“Stop looking at me like that.” Andrew lights a cigarette, blowing a puff of smoke in Neil's face in retaliation. Neil frowns at him for half a second, shoveling Chinese into his mouth with two chopsticks. The frown doesn't last long. He's grinning again in five seconds. Neil’s giddiness and excitement has grown each year since he survived Baltimore, but on days when they have lunch with Neal, he seems to practically vibrate with the force of his emotions overflowing. It’s reminiscent of game days, but moreso it has the same overstimulated feel Andrew knows from when they visit Wymack or any one of the foxes. Neil lives off of people the same way he lives off Exy or the same way he lives off of Andrew.

Andrew won't say that he likes it or that he likes the look of happiness on Neil's face, but he's fooling no one. Neil isn't the only one who knows him or understands him anymore.

Neal grins back, laughter similar to Neil's. The two look almost nothing alike—Neal is practically a foot taller, with dark hair that contrasts with Neil's red hair. But the resemblance is there, when Andrew looks for it: the curve of their jawline is the same, the point of their chin, the way their eyes are set in their skull, in the same, chilling shade of blue. The way they talk or the tone of their laughter brand them as brothers more than their father ever could.

They have other similarities, too. For instance, Andrew can tell when Neil is lying, or when there's something that needs to be said that he's avoiding. He doesn't lie to Andrew anymore, but Andrew has learned to read him through his truths or in the lies he tells other people. It’s his body language: the line of his shoulders and the shift of his weight; the way he smiles or doesn't; the purse of his lips and push of his words. Neil and Neal speak the same language; Andrew is fluent in it.

Neil knows it, too. But Neal isn't dangerous--he's reckless. He has the potential to be, by way of third person, the same way Neil existing next to them his freshmen year was deadly through the Moriyamas or the Butcher. Unlike Neil, Neal is experienced with people and with threats not against himself. Whatever it is, Neal is either capable of handling it or capable of pushing them out of harm's way.

That doesn't mean he trusts him. Trusting Neil is a lesson Andrew is still learning, everyday when they wake up next to each other. He doesn't care enough to expand that trust to his brother.

“I don't see why you keep bringing us cake,” Neil says, pushing the pink box away. He seems to enjoy the idea of his brother binging him food they both know he won't do more than pick at. “You know I don't like cake.”

“These are samples,” Neal says, grinning. He pushes the box towards Andrew, who flicks his cigarette on the ground to take a piece. Chocolate, buttercream frosting. “The bakery is trying new things. We're expanding. It's good, right?”

It is good. Andrew can admit that. It doesn't take away from whatever Neal is hiding, but it's good enough that he'll eat the samples without protest. He'll eat Neal's share, too.

“Why are you expanding?” Neil asks.

Neal shrugs. “We do a lot of catering for Burke Premier Events. We can't struggle to keep up and keep the shop open. Besides, new cakes mean new business—if more people find out about us, it will be easier to open a second location.”

“You should serve ice cream,” Andrew says, taking another piece. Lemon with cream cheese frosting. He passes the takeout over to Neil, who looks appalled.

“That is a _great_ idea.”

“So is actually eating lunch.” Neil passes the Chinese back to him with an earnest look. Andrew stares at him, raising an eyebrow as he eats another piece of cake. Red velvet.

Neal laughs. “I'm glad you like it. Actually, I have something else you might like.”

Shoulders set, back straight, loose limbed--Neal's eyes are shifty. He opens the front of his jacket, taking out a thin white envelope. Neil takes it from him, opening it up and leaning towards Andrew as he looks at it.

“Two tickets to Germany?”

“Leaving tonight,” Andrew notes. Neal wants them out of the country.

Neil narrows his eyes at his brother. “Why?”

Neal pushes the pink box a little closer to Andrew. Bribing. “Consider it a honeymoon.”

Neal chokes, even though he's not currently eating or drinking anything. Andrew takes another bite of cake—wedding cake, he thinks. White chocolate with raspberry. Neil would hate it. “We're not getting married,” Neil says.

“Why not?”

“Because—we're not,” Neil says, obviously flustered. He shifts in his seat.

“Why Germany?” Andrew asks. Of course Neil leaves it to him to ask the important questions.

Neal shrugs. “It's just a starting point. Anywhere else you wanna go, ask, and Moz and I will get you tickets within the day.”

Andrew grunts. “And it's all paid for?”

“Why wouldn't it be?”

Neil shifts, uncomfortable. His eyebrows are raised, furrowed—not in confusion. He knows exactly what's going on, too. It's distress. Andrew hands him a piece of cake—orange, with a bare scraping of frosting on top, cementing an orange slice to it. It's not too sweet with sugar or frosting. Neil should like it.

“How long would we need to be gone?”

Neal winces. He knows Andrew won't play games. He should have seen this coming. “Hopefully less than a month.”

Neil makes another choking sound. His eyes are wide, cheeks flushed for a different reason. Andrew recognizes it; he knows Neil like he knows himself. This feels too much like running. He's not Nathaniel, anymore; the Butcher has no more power over him. “A month?”

Neal sighs, leaning forward. He sees what Andrew does. They both know him too well. “I know, Abram. I'm sorry. I promise, this is nothing like your childhood. This was out of my control and it caught me off guard, but I'm doing what I can to protect you.”

Neil looks over to him, as if asking for help. Andrew doesn't trust Neal, not really, but he knows him. And he supposes he can almost understand him when he thinks of Aaron. They're alike in ways most won't understand or look for.

Andrew takes another cake. Pink champagne. “I've never been to Germany.”

Neil nods, but his brows are still pinched together in worry. Andrew will smooth them out later. “You're taking care of Sir and King,” he says. “Can we borrow some suitcases?”

Neal smiles. His shoulders are relaxed, pitching slightly forward. His eyes are clear, big. His teeth show as he silently lets out a breath. It's unnoticeable but Andrew is observant. He's relieved.

“Of course.”

 

* * *

 

 

Neal’s kitchen table is scattered with chess pieces, all representing a different player. The FBI, Moriyama, himself--Neil and Andrew are off the board, off the table.

It’s a shitty plan, cooked up only in a few hours and a few glasses. They’ve worked on less.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Neal?” Mozzie asks. He's worried. Neal can tell by the line on this forehead, the way his voice is slightly higher. There's a thin line of sweat on the back of his neck, his temple. He tightens his fingers into a fist every time he makes a point.

He doesn't think Neal will survive this.

“Can you give me a better option, Moz?”

This is Neal's childhood, Neil's childhood, and the connection to Wesninski and Moriyama. This is what they have. Mozzie is grasping at straws.

But Neal is, too.

  
“Yes!” Mozzie digs something out of his coat pocket, slamming it— _her_ —on the table with frantic force.

Neal frowns, raising his eyebrows. “What's Lolana doing here?”

Mozzie sighs. Neal can't tell if he's relieved he has Neal's attention or if he's just tired. Neal is tired, too. “During our brief alienation—before the whole Keller fiasco—I moved your portion of the treasure out of the country.” He flicks a gold coin at Neal. “We could run! Right now. Never look back.”

Neal blinks, rapidly. He glances away from Mozzie's intense stare. He takes a deep breath, then looks back. “Moz. I'm done running. Besides, Neil lives in New York, now—I can't leave him.”

Mozzie takes a deep breath. His voice shakes. He sounds resigned, with a touch of maddening desperation. “Do you have any idea what Moriyama will do to you if he finds out who you are?”

Neal sighs, locks his jaw. He knocks all the chess pieces over; they won't help him now. Peter and El will be expecting him soon. He missed dinner on purpose, but they know he's coming tonight, anyway. “I imagine he'll put a bullet in my skull.” He has imagined it, actually. He can't stop.

“Graphic—but yes! And that's if he's feeling generous!” Neal winces, thinking of the scars covering his brother's face and body. Wesninski gave those to him, of his own volition, but he still worked for the Moriyama's. They've probably hired someone else, by now. He wonders if their weapon of choice is still a knife. “Neal!”

“Moz! I can't leave. You know that I can't. If I leave, that's it for me. I can't come back.”

Mozzie sniffs, pushes his glasses up. He folds his arms as he looks away from Neal, pointedly. He hates losing—especially when he's right. Especially when he's wrong.

There is no good answer and no good option. Neal will work with what he has.

“Moz,” Neal says, an apology in his name he knows Moz will understand.

Mozzie clears his throat. He still doesn't look at Neal. “What would you like me to say at your funeral?”

Neal runs a hand through his hair, messing it up. He's still wearing his work clothes. He loosens his tie, wonders if he should change before he leaves.

“I'll think of something,” he promises.

 

* * *

 

 

The cab is loud in the quiet of the neighborhood. It's getting late. He can't stay long.

Peter answers the door before Neal even has a chance to knock. His fist is still up in the air, and Peter catches it with his hand before he can relax it. He shoots Neal a dark look, eyeing him up and down. He pauses when he notices the wine bottle Neal brought as an apology for missing dinner. A bordeaux—it’s expensive. Peter doesn't mention it.

“You're late,” he says, releasing Neal’s hand. Neal winces, because he's right, but smiles all the same. “El saved you a plate. I told her not to.”

“Mozzie held me up,” he says, by way of explanation. He finds El's eye, mouths _thank you_. She winks at him.

“By gunpoint?” Peter mutters as he sits down on the couch next to Elizabeth.

El smacks him on the arm with her book, smirking. Neal grins at her. “Hon.”

“Sorry,” Peter mutters, glancing away, “but—"

Neal waves his apology away. “It was a close thing,” he says, teasing to ease the tension. “Mozzie slammed Lolana on the table.” He realizes the problem with the wording a second later, almost winces—but it's funny and he'll go with it for tonight. They— _he_ —could use a laugh.

Peter rubs his eyes, hunching into himself and his wife. “I don't want to know what that means.”

“Who's Lolana?” El asks, eyes twinkling. Her eyes look a lot like Neil's, he thinks—full of cheeky laughter and biting sarcasm. Neal is sure she's met Lolana.

Peter huffs. “I'm never eating there again.”

Neal laughs. “Lolana is a bobble head. And a symbol—he was trying to make a point.”

“What point?”

Neal shakes his head. “It's Mozzie. I'm sure you can guess.” He stands up, evading more. Tonight, his best friends will learn about Neal Wesninski. He wants to hold onto Neal Caffrey for as long as he can. “Corkscrew?”

“Oh, I'll get it,” El says. She takes the bottle from him, then stares at him sternly, casting a sideways glance towards her husband. It's obvious, then, Neal thinks. They know him too well. “Sit down.”

Peter doesn't miss a beat, either. As soon as El leaves the room, as soon as Neal is sitting down again, he frowns, pursing his lips. “You wanna tell me why you invited yourself over? Or why you've been acting weird all day?”

Neal plays offended. He's stalling. “Weird, Peter? Seriously?”

“Tell me I'm wrong.” Peter's tone is strong, reassuring. Neal feels as if he's a child again, his mother trying to coax him into telling her when he did something wrong.

Something else hits him at the same time. It's a stronger, more recent and familiar sensation. He feels like he's a kid again, willing to do everything for Abram but never able to.

He's able to, now. He has the FBI, he has Peter on his side.

“My brother and his boyfriend have a flight tonight—they’re going to Germany.”

El comes back into the room, balancing three glasses in both hands and the bottle in the crook of an elbow with elegance and ease that speaks of experience. “Oh?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “That sounds fun. I've never been to Germany.”

“Neither have I,” Peter says, playing along. He doesn't drink wine often, but tonight he sips from the glass his wife brought.

“Andrew—the boyfriend—has family there.” Neal has never mentioned their names before, except once when Peter asked for his brother's. They don't miss the significance. El's eyes widen and she quickly glances at Peter as she takes a sip of wine. Peter furrows his brows down, pursing his lips again.

“That's sweet,” El says, genuinely. Whatever information Neal gives them, she's content with. She won't push.

Peter, however, does push. “Why are you telling us this?”

Neal watches as El subtley pinches his arm. _“Thank you_ for telling us,” she says, brightly. Peter winces. Neal can't help but smile at them fondly.

“It's alright,” he says. “I'm telling you because it's important.” He pauses. He's really telling them this. There is no going back—from now on, they'll actually _know him._ “My brother—it’s Neil Josten.”

Elizabeth's eyes widen. _“The_ Neil Josten?”

“I don't know who that is,” Peter says blankly, shaking his head.

Neal raises his eyebrows at him. “You've heard of Kevin Day but not Neil Josten?”

“I only heard about Day because of Jones. What?” he asks, as El and Neal continue to stare at him. “Is he some Exy bigshot? I thought you said he only graduated last year.”

“His name was in the news a few years ago,” Neal says, vaguely.

“Oh, hon,” El says, which Neal assumes to mean she knows exactly what he's talking about. Her eyes are big and she's biting her lip.

“What?” Peter asks, looking confused and out of his depth.

“He was kidnapped a few years ago,” Neal says quietly, watching Peter's eyes bulge. El takes a sip of wine. “It was during a riot right after an Exy game his freshman year. According to the reports, it was the FBI that saved him.”

“I've always been in White Collar,” Peter says, as if he needs to give an explanation to Neal. He doesn't. It's the other way around. “I don't hear a lot about kidnapping cases.”

“I heard about it a few weeks later, in prison. He was kidnapped by his father.” _Our_ father, he doesn't say. “His father—Nathan Wesninski—was in the mob. He was a serial killer known as the Butcher, but not a lot of people know that he worked for the Moriyama's.”

“The current case,” Peter says, as part of it clicks for him. His eyes are wide, horrified. Neal wants to reach out, close them with a butterfly touch. He can't stand it. “You're connected to it. Ichirou Moriyama.”

Neal nods. He hesitates. Takes a sip of wine. He thinks of the night, not too long ago, when Peter stopped by unannounced.

 _What's your brother’s name?_ he'd asked.

_What's your name?_

“Peter,” Neal says, swallowing. “You once asked me what my name was.”

“You said it was Danny.”

“It was,” he says. “Danny Brooks. It was the name the Marshals gave me when my parents—separated. I was three and my mother told me he died.”

Peter's eyes widen as he draws in a slow gasp. Beside him, El is twisting her now empty wine glass around in her hands. “You grew up in Witness Protection,” Peter says. “Which means Nathan Wesninski is your father, too.”

Neal nods. “I found out when I was eighteen. Ran away. It took Moz and I almost a year to find my little brother.” He pauses. “After his mom died, I foraged his ID. It was the best I'd ever made, but he was kidnapped, anyways. I told you a little bit about the Moriyama family branches earlier today—after lunch.”

“The first sons, the connection they have with Exy,” Peter says, nodding. His eyes are almost watery, looking heated. Neal wonders if it's the wine. He knows that it isn't. “They use the games for cover.”

“Yes,” Neal says. “The second branch isn't nearly as powerful—but they’re the ones who found out about him, informed Wesninski.”

“How?” El asks. She's holding Peter’s hand tight enough for her knuckles to white.

“If the second branch isn't as powerful—"

“It's not. But the Moriyama name still has a lot of influence. _Neil Josten_ never existed—I created him in a broken down hotel room. He has no history.”

“Neither do you,” Peter says, shifting. His entire essence is bleeding anxiety. If they were at the office, Peter would be pacing. Instead, he sits, holds El's hand and drinks expensive wine as he worries. “Neither does any other alias or FBI agent undercover. We can create fake histories—”

“But it doesn't account for hometowns with no memory of the person growing up. That's the problem we ran into.”

Peter sighs, pushing his fingers into his eyes. He takes a long drink of his wine, grimacing. “Alright. This is a lot of information. Neal, you can't go anywhere near this case--we'll take this to Hughes tomorrow morning, and figure it out from there. Moriyama cannot find out about you—I don't care that Wesninski is dead. I doubt he cares, either. And if he finds out you're working with us—” he takes another sip of his wine. His cheeks are red, flushed. El rubs his back, sympathetic and just as worried.

Neal pours more wine into Peter's and El's glasses. He should have brought more than one bottle. “Nick Halden doesn't have a legitimate history,” he says. Maybe they still have the bottle he gave them for Christmas. “Neither does George Devore, Steve Tabernackle, Benjamin Cooper.” He takes a sip of his wine, thinks of his little brother. He has to remember who he's doing this for. Neil can't live the rest of his life tied to a yakuza family—Neal won't let him. Not if he has the chance to put an end to it, and life is providing him a great opportunity right now. He has to take it. Right now.

“Danny Brooks does.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments/kudos!
> 
> Neal: You guys should get married  
> Neil: no  
> Andrew: yes 
> 
> Also if you guys want Neil/Andrew to actually get married, I can DEFINETLY make that happen, so please ley me know your thoughts on it. I know Nora says they never do but, like--taxes? Love, maybe? Idk. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you guys like this! Again, I apologize for the Mozzie-Lolana thing. I tried to take it out but I couldn't. Mozzie deserves love. 
> 
> Okay, that's it. Next part will (should) directly follow this one! Thanks, guys. 
> 
> Xoxo


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